Ripples of Those Not Found
by Sunset
Summary: Character death in Chapter One Alternate ending to Grave Danger and the reactions to Nicks death.
1. Beep Beep Beep

**Ripples of Those Not Found**

**Chapter One**

**Beep Beep Beep**

**They didn't find him. Still haven't found him. If only there had been something specific about the ants, something to grab on to, something to research. Something, _anything_ that could have narrowed the search. When miles and miles of desert surround you, where are you supposed to start?**

**To say Grissom felt guilty would be an understatement. Racked with guilt. Numb with guilt. Mind, body, soul twisted with grief. Not only had he failed to find him, but Grissom had been the one to put Kelly Gordon in prison in the first place. Guilt abounded. **

**He can still hear Warrick's watch alarm. Its tiny beeps incessantly marking off the end of Nick's life, ticking away the air, sounding off his heartbeats.**

**He'd been in his office, franticly searching though one entomology text after another, the printed out photo of the ant pinched in between his thumb and forefinger so tightly his hand began to cramp. Nicks face back dropped the ant, twisted in a grimace, his skin marred by sweat and bite marks.**

**Grissom tossed yet another book to the floor, it joined the other useless books full of now useless information. There was only one thing in the world he wanted, needed, and not being able to find it made him useless.**

**At first, he didn't register what he was hearing. Distant beeps made even more distant by his emersion in the text, big words that he would normally have no trouble deciphering, but his distracted and weary mind treated the familiar words like a foreign language. His brain began to scream at him, and he tuned in.**

**Beep beep beep. **

**Such an insignificant sound to have such an impact on so many lives.**

**Beep beep beep.**

**Sara screamed his name. He ran into the other room, now filled with the entire lab staff. The group parted, making a path for him.**

**Warrick sat in front of the computer screen, tears streaming down his face; the fingertips of one hand on the glass of the monitor, a dime clasped tightly in his other hand.**

**Catherine kneeled next to him, her head on his shoulder, her fingertips pressed against her lips, as if she was trying to hold back a scream.**

**Greg held a sobbing Sara, her fingers clutching at the back of his sweater, her face buried in his chest. Greg stared over her shoulder at the monitor, his eyes empty and unbelieving. **

**Brass stood to the side, shoulders slumped, fists hung at his sides, clenching and unclenching.**

**Judy, Archie, Hodges formed a small group. Archie's arm crossed Judy's chest, his hand holding her shoulder, until she couldn't watch anymore and turned into him, hiding her eyes behind her hands. Hodges glanced down at the movement and placed a soothing hand on her shoulder.**

**Doc Robbins, David and Ecklie were in the back of the room. Part of the lab, yet still separate. All had come to witness what they had assumed would be a miraculous rescue. They stood in stunned silence.**

**Beep beep beep.**

**Grissom stood behind Warrick. Every computer screen in the room displayed the same image of Nicks agony as his lungs moaned for air that was no longer there. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his last breaths exhaling out in one desiccated gush. His eyes opened wide with pain. Anguish. Regret. **

**Grissom thought, and Doc Robbins knew, that Nick's organs were silently shutting down, one by one. **

**Never had anything so quiet taken so long.**

**And then, suddenly, it was over.**

**After a few moments Brass reached over and turned off the feed. The screens blinked black, leaving Nicky alone forever.**


	2. A Fathers Love

**Chapter Two **

**12 Hours later**

**A Fathers Love**

**He was one of the so-called lucky ones, sent home by the sheriff and told not to come back until Wednesday. His legs felt like they were made of lead, each step down the hall taking more energy than he really had left. He paused by Grissoms closed office door, and, at first, thought that the senior CSI had finally been drug home, until he heard the light murmuring coming from inside the office. He couldn't be sure, but Brass thought it was Gil and Catherine. Debating with himself, he finally decided to let them be, and forcing his leaded legs to begin to move again, he slowly made his way to his car. **

**He didn't go home. His car seemed to have a mind of its own, and drove him down side streets, finally pulling in and parking at a local bar, one that tourists hadn't yet invaded. **

**Shutting off the engine, he stayed behind the wheel. He needed a drink, but didn't need all the crap that went with it, and wished, not for the first time, that he wasn't an alcoholic. **

**So there he sat, behind the wheel of his department issued Taurus, seatbelt still fastened, hands tightly gripping the wheel, weighing his need for a drink against his need for several drinks. **

**Brass had no idea how much time had passed, until his eyes caught a flash of red and blue in the rear view mirror. He'd been there so long, someone had gotten worried and called the cops. With a small smile on his face, Brass dug out his shield and flashed it at the approaching uniform. The rookie, (and Brass was quiet sure he was a rookie, the face of the kid bending down into his window was still fresh, his eyes were still full of the dream of being a hero) apologized and asked if there was anything he could do for the Captain. Brass almost laughed. Almost. Then he told the kid not to worry, he was headed home, and reached for the key to start the engine.**

**He went home, checked his answering machine only to find a blinking zero. He'd been foolish to have any hope that Ellie would have called. Nicks kidnapping had made national news, and he'd harbored a secret hope that Ellie would have seen it and… **

**And he didn't know what. Come to her senses; realize that he'd done the best he could. Forgive him even. **

**He knew that he was searching for something good to come of this. And for him, the only good was Ellie. **

**Dragging himself to his bedroom, he lay down on his bed still fully clothed. The shirt and pants he'd put on God knows how long ago were already past saving, and his tie was long gone, lost somewhere amid the chaos of a frantic search and shattered hopes.**

**He held his breath, lying there in the comfort of his own bed, trying to image what Nick had gone though, held it so long, that his lungs defied him, expanding themselves, pulling in air in great gasps. **

**He lay there, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. And he wondered to himself, if it'd been his daughter locked up, turned into all the things that Kelly Gordon had said she was now, would he have taken revenge? Could he have?**

**God, he needed a drink.**

TBC…

Thank you, Swede85, Nancy, and krysalys Your words were both kind and encouraging. I hope you find the rest of the story just as enjoyable. - Sunset


	3. Physician, Heal Thyself

**Chapter Three**

**24 Hours later **

**Physician, Heal Thyself**

**He's somewhat glad they didn't find him. Not that he wouldn't have preferred a happier outcome, but if Nick had to die, then he's somewhat glad that the body of the young man he was proud to call his friend never laid on his table.**

**Doc Robbins finished sewing closed his fourth autopsy since he'd watched Nick die. Each one of the bodies had been as physically different from Nick as possible, and yet, some trick of his brain turned each corpse into his friend. **

**With a sigh lodged deep in his chest, the doctor pushed through the morgues double doors, trying to quell the reverberating need to escape the cold companionship of the dead; to surround himself with the warm moist air in the breath of the living.**

**The halls of the lab were as quiet as the morgue.**

**No hallway conversations. No laughter coming from the break room. Locker doors weren't banging shut. The only sounds to be heard were the occasional buzz of a printer, or the ping of a machine, they joined the click of the doctors' metal crutches on the tile floor, echoing down the desolate hall with hallow thumps. Even the damn walls were mourning.**

**The lack of sound made his heart hurt. Unshed tears collected, pooling behind his eyes, threatening to overflow. He kept walking, putting more concentration into each step than was necessary, hoping that would keep the tears at bay. **

**Walking the halls aimlessly, searching for signs of life from a place that had just had its heart ripped out, he turned a corner, and stopped. The layout room. How long ago had that been? A year? Two? He was taken aback at the melding of days, cases, dead bodies. The guilty, the innocent. How long ago had it been when he walked into the layout room to find Nick standing there, the bits and pieces of someone's life laid out before him. Who had the victim been? A librarian? No, that wasn't right, but it was close. **

**What had they discussed? Doc stared at the floor, taping the fingertips of one hand against his forehead, as if trying to dislodge the memory. Chemicals. That's what they'd talked about. Chemicals, and the table, the table that lit up from underneath. He'd been impressed with the table. **

**Doc's heart sank, his stomach squelched, his breath caught in his throat. He'd had Nick; good hearted, gentle of soul Nick, right there in front of him, and he'd been interested in a damn table. Had he ever told Nick what a good guy he was? The fingertips on his forehead moved down, rubbed his eyes, his back falling against the frame of the open door, and he swallowed away the acid blend of shame and tears.**


	4. Lucky Be A Lady

**Chapter Four**

**1 Week later**

**Luck be a Lady**

**On the first day he ignored the phone when it rang, every time it rang. She left a message on the machine, her familiar voice coming out of the small black machine on his desk. Just checking on him, was he ok? He laughed. And then he cried.**

**On the second day, he ripped the cord out of the wall.**

**He'd made the right decision, no question. What use was punishing the guilty when the victims were still dead? So, Warrick handed in his weapon and credentials with in an hour of watching Nick die. What good were they to him anymore? They hadn't helped him find his best friend, so he handed the gun to Brass, the ID to Grissom, and didn't look back.**

**Part of his brain keeps telling him that it was all a joke. When sleep overcomes him, he dreams that Nick walks through the door, fanning himself with the hundred Greg had just reluctantly handed over. The whole thing was a bet, Nicky explains laughing. And in his dream, Warrick, his fist clenched, nearly punches him, but hugs him instead.**

**He sits, unsure of what to do, where to begin, it's been so long since he's done this.**

**The keys are dusty. White ivory coated with gray grime, and he ran his finger down the succession of keys, leaving a trail of white in his wake. Old habits die hard; he finds himself looking for the imprint of groves and ridges his fingertip left behind. He snorts a short laugh at himself and shuffles lazily into the kitchen, his left hand clenched tightly in a fist. Bringing back a dishtowel, he wipes off the keys, restoring them to their original ivory, then tosses the towel at his feet.**

**His elbows rise, bringing his hands in front of him, hovering just above the keys. Only then does he realize his left hand is clenched, fingers curled in on themselves, wrapped up in his palm. Warrick looks at his hand, his brow furrowed, the pain of the taxed muscles and tendons just registering. He tilts his head, bringing the hand up for closer inspection, staring at the back of his own fingers. When had he closed his fist? It's a greater effort than it should be, opening his hand, and he watches, almost disembodied, like he's watching a movie version of himself, forcing his own fingers to unlock, uncurl.**

**He feels the pressure of something in his palm, and at first, assumes it's a ghost image of his fingers, but then the feeling peels away, a tearing sensation, and he can feel more than see something slip off from his skin and fall toward the floor. Instinctively, his hand dips, slipping down quicker, lower, catching the descending object, like a mother bird scooping up a fallen babe.**

**His fingers mechanically refold over the object in his palm, but this time, forcing them open doesn't require half the effort. He sees the object resting in his palm, and has to look again, bringing his hand up closer. What the hell? A dime? Why would he carry around a dime in his hand… and then he remembers, the memory hitting him with such intensity it knocks the breath out of him. The lucky dime. Or unlucky, depending on which side of the flip you were on. He hangs his head for a moment, willing away the tears that once again threaten. **

**Slipping the dime into his breast pocket, he once again raises his elbows, poising his fingers over the keys, and this time there's no hesitation, his fingers glide over the piano keys, his grandmothers favorite Sinatra classic wraps around him, like a bandage around a wound.**


	5. It's in the Stars

_A/N: I'd like to apologize for the layout; I couldn't get this chapter to upload correctly. Thanks to all who've left feedback, it does a writers heart good to know this story is being well received. Sunset_

**Chapter Five**

**2 Weeks later**

**It's in the Stars**

He climbs the steps, once again wondering why he's so compelled to go up there, and once again, shrugs off the question, not really wanting to know the answer. It makes him feel better, if even for a little while, and so doesn't need questioning.   
Greg takes the last two stairs with one giant step, putting himself on the landing. He stops for a moment, catching his breath. As healthy as he is, three flights of stairs would wind anyone. He pats his pants pockets, hoping he didn't forget the key, and feels the metal teeth lodged deep in the bottom corner. Sticking his hand in the pocket, he fishes for the steel ring, hooks it on one finger and pulls it out, the key dangling.   
He unlocks the door and steps through, the cold night air hitting him like the punch of a prizefighter; taking his breath away. He wraps his arms around himself, and crosses the rooftop to the corner he's come to think of as his own.   
The chaise sits there, just as he'd left it the night before, and Greg first sits, then lays back, feeling the give of the interwoven plastic underneath his weight. He rubs his eyes; to little sleep and to much work have left them as dry as the desert itself, but sleep only brings dreams, memories that he doesn't want just yet, and so he buries himself in work.   
He feels his body relaxing, the alien sensation of spinning begins to overtake his overworked muscles, and his eyes snap open. Sleep was not what he came up here for.   
The sky above him is clear, his apartment building is far enough from the strip that the neon glow doesn't invade the shine of the stars. He knows that he's looking for answers; knows that this is the only way he can search for reasoning without directly questioning God Himself, hopes that maybe the angels will rearrange the stars to spell out the answer he needs.   
A childhood memory comes to him then, his mother once telling him that the stars are peepholes though which angels keep an eye on those on Earth. As a six year old, the idea had young Greg crawling into bed and covering himself with the blanket at sundown, but now, as an adult, paranoia gone, the idea offered the only peace he'd had in two weeks.   
He glanced around the sky, and found, just to his left, one that seemed to glow a bit brighter than the rest, and as his eyes settled on it, the chosen star twinkled, like a wink. He designated it as Nick's peephole. Greg smiled for the first time in two weeks, gave the star a little wave, then let sleep take him. 


	6. Two with One Blow

**Chapter Six **

**1 Month later **

**Two with One Blow **

**She's reminded of the fairy tale, the one about the tailor and the giant. Seven with one blow the tailor had said. She lost both of them at once. Two with one blow.**

**Catherine stands at her kitchen sink, rubbing a soapy sponge over a plate that was clean five minutes ago.**

**She hadn't been kidding that night, the last time she had them both in front of her, when she'd said they were her two favorite guys, and only now, now that they're both gone, does she realize just how much of each one of them is wrapped up in her. Her friends, sparing partners, flirting buddies, sounding boards. They were her test dummies as she learned to drive her new position as supervisor.**

**They were hers, and now they're gone. Vanished from her sight in just a breath of time**.

**Two with one blow.**

**There was a case, not all that long ago, and it's been on Catherine's mind quiet a bit these long four weeks. A mother losing both her sons, one to murder, the other to prison. She'd thought, as she stood there, listening to the confession backed by the sobs of a devastated mother, she thought then that she understood how the other woman felt. She'd thought of Lindsay in those moments, had taken her feelings for her daughter, doubled them internally, then subtracted each one, and had thought she'd understood. She hadn't. Not until now. Not until her own boys were gone.**

**She's given up on trying to talk to Warrick, he stopped listening the moment Brass had pushed the off button, so now, she talks to Nicky. She tells him about the cases she's working; how the new hires, (she can't bear to use the word replacement), can't compare to him. She tells him each asinine thing Hodges says, and how well Greg is doing. She tells him how much she misses him.**

**Realizing the plate in her hands is clean; she drops the sponge into the sink and moves the dish under the clean running water. Her mind slips, picturing Nick as she knows he would be now, the ants having left long ago, mother nature taking over, the dish leaves her grip, weather it slips or she throws it, she'll never know, bouncing off the counter, crashing in to a glass, sending them both to the floor, shattering in a million pieces.**

**Two with one blow.**


	7. With Regards to Tony Bennett

**Chapter Seven**

**3 Months later**

**With Regards to Tony Bennett**

**She breathes in air flavored by warm saltwater, and basks in the moist radiance of the sun. The faux glow of neon that is Las Vegas far behind her; and she realizes how much she's missed the smell of the ocean.**

**The wind comes through the open car window, blowing her hair into her face. She pulls it back, fruitlessly tucking it behind her ear. Sara leans on her elbow, propped up in the open window, the other hand casually holding the wheel. She'd thought she'd be more nervous, the tension growing as the hours and miles ticked away, but she's surprised to find none.**

**The radio station fades, uttering a few dying crackles as she pulls farther out of it's signal. Sara reaches down and pushes a button, sending the radio out on a pursuit for a stronger signal. It stops after a moment, and a country crooner is singing to her about traveling the open roads. Appropriate, she thinks to herself. And after another moments thought, she thinks, very appropriate. The wind blows her hair in her face again.**

**She follows the signs, pulling off the freeway on to the city streets. Needlessly, double-checking the map lying unfolded and flapping in the seat next to her; she knows her way there. She's been mentally driving this route since Nick's memorial service, when she watched his mother's devastated stillness. Sara is, after all, only human, and she wondered if it had been her sent on that trash call, if her own mother would have responded the same, having lost the daughter she lost so long ago. Sara's heart aches with so many memories, so many 'what ifs', she puts a hand to her chest, as if trying to keep her own heart from breaking in to pieces.**

**A red light stops her, and she takes the moment to look around at her surroundings, puzzled, by the subtly of the city, so used to abundance, that for a brief moment, she's mystified by its absence. Reminding herself of where she is, Sara laughs quietly. The light changes, and she's once again on her way to her destination.**

**Another half an hour and several more miles tick away, and then, there is it, looming over her. She pulls to a curb half a block down, to breathe deep, reassure herself. She closes her eyes, recalling a comforting, strengthening image, and can feel Nick smiling at her. Another song on the radio, she realizes the country station is still playing. This singer warbles something about a waitress hitting it big in Vegas. How many country songs, she wonders aloud, mention Las Vegas? She takes the mentioning of her adopted hometown as some kind of sign, and pulls back out into traffic.**

**She leans out of the car window giving the guard at the gate her name, then her mother's name. As he checks his clipboard, Sara's eyes glance up at the gate standing over her, it isn't as tall as she remembers; and the clanging noise it makes as it opens isn't as loud. That noise used to signal the beginning of a very long hour for Sara, now it signals what she hopes will be the beginning of a very long reunion. **


	8. Exoduses

**Chapter Eight**

**Six Months later**

**Exoduses**

**The first thing he notices is the worried stare of two people in the parking lot as he pulls into his parking space and shuts off the engine. They quickly glance away when he climbs out and makes eye contact. He shrugs it off, chalking it up to fear of the boss. **

**Inside, he gets the same reaction, can feel the stares as he makes his way down the halls, that are, he realizes, so very quiet. Quick glances, eyes following him as he passes. Worried, apprehensive expressions meet his when he pauses a moment to look around, wondering what it is that's happened now. Lab techs stop in mid sentence, pulling their bodies up from being bent over machines to watch him through the glass walls as he passes. Those unlucky enough to be in the hall, step out of his way, pinning themselves up against the wall, and he begins to feel a bit like Moses parting the Red Sea.**

**Ecklie turns the corner, and the mass of whispering that had preceded his approach now silences itself in his presence. Four or five people gather in an open office doorway, they scatter off in different directions as he stops to take in the scene for himself. **

**What greets him is absence. **

**The absence of books. The absence of fluid filled jars. The tarantula tank is gone, as is the bottled pig fetus. All the shelves are empty. A pile of mud colored brown case folders sits neatly in the middle of the now clear desktop. Pencils and pens stick out from the top of a dark blue coffee cup, like soldiers standing at attention. The stapler, tape dispenser and a box of paper clips, all lined up perfectly at the top of the desk blotter.**

**Stepping into the empty office, Ecklie is greeted with echoes of his own footsteps. It takes him a moment to realize what he's seeing, and then it hits him suddenly with the force of all four winds. He looks around for a moment, taking stock, taking the moment to re-gather his wits. He can feel eyes staring at him from hiding places, waiting for his reaction.**

**With a deep sigh, he passes back through the open door, back out into the hall, around another corner, to his own office door. Flipping on the light, he sees what he was sure he'd see sitting in the middle of his own desk, underneath the circle of light the desk lamp casts down, where there was no chance of it being missed. Ecklie shuts the door behind him, and without taking his eyes off the white piece of paper, nearly glowing florescent, he makes his way around the desk, and sits in his chair. The leather of the seat crackles and groans as he settles himself in. **

**He knows what it says, but picks it up and reads it anyway, two typed words and a scrawled signature beneath them. **

**Ecklie tosses the paper back down on to his desk; it floats for a moment before settling down almost exactly where it was. **


	9. Eye of the Beholder

**Chapter Nine**

**1 Year later**

**Eye of the Beholder**

**He sips his coffee slowly, and thinks about retirement. Enough with the early mornings, enough with the long drive out, enough with every inch of his body hurting at the end of the day. Enough with complaining customers, who expect any plant to thrive in the desert when they forget to water it. Enough. **

**One hand on the wheel, he sips at the coffee again and lets up on the gas, the old beat up truck slowing to make the turn onto the dusty drive, past the faded sign, hand painted lettering announcing that he'd once again arrived at Spring Anew Nursery.**

**He parks off to the side, leaving the best spaces for what few customers he might have. The coffee bounces around as he climbs out of the cab, spilling over the lip, splashing on to his hand. Cursing, he tosses the Styrofoam cup down; the morning breeze catches it, sending it tumbling though the dirt and sand. It comes to rest near an anthill.**

**He curses again; ants are another thing he's had enough of. **

**Trudging after the cup, better pick it up, can't have the place looking trashy, he's careful not to let any ants onto his skin. The breeze picks up again, taking the cup for a ride, and as he stalks after it, he feels like a player in a silent movie and wonders if the Gods are laughing at him, munching popcorn. As he chases the cup, the toe of his boot catches, almost sending him stumbling. He looks down, expecting to see an extraneous root, and his face folds into confusion when he finds instead, of all things to find buried in the desert, a plastic bag.**

**He kneels, his knees crackling with the movement, and frees the bag from it's earthen grave; dirt falls off the slick surface, and he gives it a jiggle, shaking off the last of the dirt. A cell phone? Why would someone wrap up a cell phone and then drive all the way out here just to burry it? **

**His mind focuses, and he decides it's not a phone after all. What it is, he doesn't know, but there's a rainbow of wires coming out of one end. Must be some kind of computer thing, but why burry it? He shrugs to himself and slips it back into the bag, stands up, brushing his free hand on the leg of his jeans. Whatever it is, he thinks, can't be all that important.**

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Many thanks to everyone who left a review. Hope you 'enjoyed' reading this as much asI did writing it. Sunset


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